I Ain't Gonna Leave You
by Browncoats and Floral Bonnets
Summary: Two-shot. A nineteen year old Dean gets fed up with Sam's raging hormones and decides to go on an easy solo hunt to let off steam. Of course, easy turns to not and things go south. Major Dean whump! Rating for violence and language. **also, a bit of clarification: The Colt featured in this story is not THE Colt, but rather the .45 with the ivory grips.**
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: As the monster featured in this work is never actually in SPN, I kind of had to just make things up as I went along, so...hopefully I done good. Give it a chance, R&R appreciated.**

XXX

Dean clenches and unclenches his fist. The past few weeks have been absolute Hell. Dad says it's hormones, it's puberty, it's a phase that will pass soon enough.

Dean thinks Sam is just a bitch.

When he's not complaining about the hotel, he's complaining about the weather, or the town, or what's for dinner.

Right now, Dean's not even really sure _what_ he's complaining about, but he's sick of it.

"Sam. _Shut up,_" Dean finally says.

Sam stops mid-sentence. His eyes narrow, he sets his jaw, and stares defiantly at Dean. "Or what?" he challenges.

"Well, since _somebody_ nearly got me arrested for under-age drinking, drinking myself stupid at the bar down the street is pretty much out of the question, which leaves me with two options: rope or gun. Or maybe I could just down some antifreeze."

Sam rolls his eyes in that huffy, over-exaggerated teenager way. "Ha ha, Dean. You're hilarious. If you want, I'll do it _for_ you."

Dean just shakes his head and turns the page of the newspaper he pinched from the stand at the corner. Sam had been pretty skeptical when he saw it, actually saying, "You can read?" before burying his nose in some stupid book.

Admittedly, Dean didn't tend to do a whole lot of reading. But there was a story in today's paper that had caught his eye.

A nearby ranch had lost over a hundred sheep-every one of them completely drained of blood. That combined with a young ranch-herd gone missing made Dean think something more was going on.

Reading the whole story, he's pretty sure he's right. And that he's going up against a chupacabra. He's in New Mexico, so it's the right area, and the blood sucking thing is typical of the creatures. He smiles to himself. Finally something for him to do!

He goes to his room and grabs the car keys and heads toward the door.

"Wait!" Sam calls. "Where are you going?"

"Out." Dean really doesn't feel like arguing.

"On a hunt."

Dean curses silently.

"I'm right, aren't I? Can I come with you?"

Dean turns around. "No, you can't come with me."

Sam groans. "Dean, come _on_! You were hunting when you were half my age! Why can't I go with you? Dad lets me go with _him_!"

"I'm not Dad!" Dean snaps. "You can't come with me because Dad doesn't trust me to keep you from gettin' yerself killed. Why don't you stop being such a bitch?"

"I will when you stop being such a dick," Sam retorts. "I know that's a lie. Dad trusts you to have his back, doesn't he? Just tell me the truth!"

"The truth?" Dean laughs mirthlessly. "You want the truth? Fine. Here's the truth: Dad doesn't trust you not to get _yourself_ killed. You're a dumb half-assed kid with no instinct! The only way Dad lets you go on hunts is if both of us are there to make sure you don't screw everything up by doing something stupid that gets us all killed! That's the truth, Sammy. Happy now?" He sees the hurt look on his little brother's face and for a second he wants to apologize. Then he remembers the part where Sam called him a dick and he changes his mind, turning to go.

"Dean. Let me come. I won't let you down, I promise." Sam's voice is border-line desperate-and downright pathetic, in Dean's opinion.

"You ain't comin', Sammy. Got it? I shouldn't be gone too long. Don't wait up for me," Dean answers without turning around before leaving, slamming the door shut behind him, leaving a rather shattered looking Sam in his wake.

"Damn kid," Dean mutters as he slides into the Impala.

XXX

The drive to the ranch takes longer than expected, and Dean is grateful when he finally sees the sign for the ranch. He turns onto the gravel driveway and drives slowly down, the gravel crunching loudly. He reaches forward and turns up the music, perking up when 'Ramble On' starts playing. He sings along, loud and off-key, wondering how long the driveway is and what he's gonna tell the people there when he finally arrives.

He slows the Impala to a crawl and turns off the headlights as he nears the house. The hairs on the back of his neck are prickling, and he has the distinct feeling that something is very, very wrong. He reaches over and opens the glove compartment, pulling out his beloved ivory handled Colt (which is of course loaded with silver bullets) and a silver knife for good measure.

He closes the door of his car as softly as he can and, gun in the back of his pants and knife held out in front of him, walks quickly and quietly to the house.

From the bottom of the porch steps, he can see that the lights are on, but there's no movement, nor is there any sound coming from inside. If that's not a bad sign, Dean's not sure what is. Then he notices the door is slightly ajar.

Definitely not good.

He puts a little weight on the bottom step, letting out a silent sigh of relief when it doesn't creak. He repeats this careful procedure until he's on the porch. And then, ever so carefully, he pushes the door open.

At first, he sees nothing, but as he moves further into the house, he spies blood on the floor and follows it. He can't see into the room at the end of the hall. All he sees is a bloodied hand.

His heart is pounding in his ears and he walks slower, listening closely for any sound. When he gets to the room at the end of the hall, it's all he can do not to curse aloud.

There are three of them, a couple and a kid who can't be much older than Sam. Besides wounds that had to be from fighting, there are two puncture wounds in each of their necks. The chupacabra had beat Dean to them.

"Damn," he mutters quietly, wondering what the hell he's supposed to do now.

Suddenly, he realizes that his breath is not the only breath he hears, and he turns slowly around.

The chupacabra is big, and sort of resembles a hairless wolf, save for the large spines that protrude from its back and the bigger than normal eyes and the long, razor sharp claws. It watches Dean with blood-red eyes, baring its huge sharp teeth. Its body is tense, and it circles Dean like a tiger circles its prey, walking slowly in a wide arc, waiting to pounce.

Dean moves his knife to his left hand, eyes never leaving the beast, and reaches for his gun. His fingers brush the handle and the chupacabra lunges, raking its claws across Dean's chest.

Dean screams in pain, stumbling backward and landing on his back hard, the breath rushing from him. The knife flies from his hand and before he can retrieve it, the chupacabra is on his chest, hot breath the stench of rotten meat suffocating Dean as it snarls down at him. It bares its teeth, a string of drool dripping down onto Dean's face. It leans forward, going in for the kill, and Dean does the only thing he can think to-he throws up his arm. The chupacabra bites down, and he lets out a yell of agony as the teeth penetrate nearly to the bone.

Dean struggles to breathe under the crushing weight, struggles to see through the black spots swimming in his vision. With his right arm, he reaches toward the knife, stretching arm and hand and fingers, desperately trying to close the gap between his hand and his weapon.

The chupacabra apparently has quite a bit of canine in its ancestry, because it starts shaking Dean's arm not unlike a pit bull shakes a rabbit. Dean grits his teeth, tears slipping down his cheeks. He's so close…

_There._ His fingertips barely come in contact with the top of the knife handle, but it's enough for him to pull it to his hand and just as the thing gets ready to take another shot at Dean's neck, Dean drives the silver blade into its chest.

It lets out a yelp and Dean manages to push it off of him. The chupacabra lies on its side, panting and whimpering. Dean makes his way to his feet, grimacing, and pulls the knife from the creature.

"Adios, you son of a bitch," he mutters, taking the Colt from the back of his pants and putting a bullet right between its eyes.

Now that the chupacabra's been ganked, the adrenaline drains from Dean, and he nearly collapses from pain and exhaustion. The three gashes across his torso are still bleeding profusely, as is his left arm which is mangled mess.

Dean makes his way back to his car, sinking into the driver's seat where he just sits for a minute, catching his breath, before starting the car. Led Zeppelin greets him through the speakers.

As he drives back to the road, he remembers with a sinking feeling just how long it had taken him to get here-and that most of that drive was through the middle of nowhere.

"Don't worry, Sammy," he mutters. "I ain't gonna leave you." But even as he says the words, he can feel himself getting faint.

It's gonna be a long drive.

XXX

Officer James Barett rolls his eyes as the drunkard in front of him drives slowly along, weaving in and out of his lane. He's had his lights on for a while now, and the man hasn't pulled over. He turns on his siren. The car seems to pull over, and Barett breathes a sigh of relief. Except that once it's on the side of the road, it just keeps going, rolling lazily into a ditch with a crash. He curses loudly and pulls over, getting out of the squad car and walking down to the old Impala.

The car isn't in too bad of shape. In fact, other than a busted side-view mirror, it's fine.

The same can't be said for the driver.

Barett opens the car door, ignoring protocol, and lets out a low whistle.

The man is in bad shape. Hell, he's more of a boy than a man. His whole front is soaked with red, his shirt shredded. Three parallel gashes run from his left shoulder across his body to the bottom of his right rib cage. His left arm looks like a Doberman used it as a chew toy. The skin around the wound is flaming red and shiny, undoubtedly infected.

Barett grabs his radio. "This is Officer Barett requesting immediate medical assistance. Over."

He bends worriedly in front of the open door, gently tapping the kid's face. The man stirs a little. Barett taps his face again. The kid's eyes shoot open and he grabs the back of Barett's head with a bloody hand.

"Where's Sammy?" he gasps.

"Hey, kid. Look, help is on the way, okay? Until they get here, I need you to stay calm. Try to keep your heart rate down, you've already lost a lot of blood and you're losing more. Alright? So I need you to try and calm down." This isn't exactly Barett's area of expertise, but he does his best to calm the guy.

The kid pushes Barett away and falls out of the car, putting his hand on the side to help pull himself to his feet. "I need to find Sam!"

Barett grabs him by the arm and is shocked and highly concerned at the heat of the skin beneath his hands. "You have to calm down, son!" he cries, exasperated. "You're gonna kill yourself! Please, just relax, and once we get you to the hospital, I'll see what we can do about Sam, okay? You gotta work with me here."

The man shakes his head weakly. "No, no. There's no time." He crumples to the ground.

"What's your name?" Barett asks.

"Dean. M' name's Dean." Dean's breathing grows shallow, his eyes glassy. "Sam..." His eyes roll back.

"This is Officer Barett! I need someone out here _now_!" he shouts into his radio.

"They're on their way, Barett. Should be there soon. Hang in there."

Barett exhales slowly, keeping a close eye on Dean, trying not to dwell on the fact that the kid's lifeblood is leaking steadily onto the ground. He crosses his heart, muttering quiet prayers.

XXX

Sheriff Crane paces back and forth, waiting impatiently for Starkey to get back.

Between the blood loss and the exhaustion and the high fever that just doesn't want to break, he hasn't been able to get much from this Dean kid. He did, however, find out where his little brother was, and had sent Starkey out to pick him up. Hopefully the brother will be able shed some light on the situation.

The doctor's best guess is an animal attack, but Crane's been sheriff a long time and he's never seen an animal attack that looked like this. That's the first mystery. The second mystery is what the kid's doing with a gun and a wicked looking blade in the glove compartment of his car. Something about this whole thing feels very off to Sheriff Crane, and he's determined to get to the bottom of it.

XXX

It's been two days and Sam is worried out of his mind. Dean hasn't even so much as called, and Sam can't help but think the worst.

Then, there's a knock on the door.

"Dean?" Sam calls, jumping up and running to the door. He unlocks it and swings it open. "Dean where the _hell _ have you-oh."

It's not Dean. It's a cop. Sam's stomach drops. "Um…can I help you, Officer?" he asks.

"My name is Officer Starkey. Are you Sam Winchester?" the police officer asks.

Sam nods slowly. "…Yeah. Is something wrong?"

"It's your brother."

Sam suddenly feels faint, and he has to grip the doorframe to keep from falling.

"You alright son?" Starkey asks, reaching out a hand.

"I'm fine. What's happened to Dean? Where is he? Is he…" He can't finish the sentence, and is ashamed to find tears in his eyes. He rubs them away.

"He's in the hospital, son. Do you have a parent or something here with you?"

"Um…no. My dad's on a business trip and Dean was looking after me until…it he gonna be okay? Can I see him?" Sam's voice is full of desperation.

"I can take you over there right now."

Sam nods and follows the officer to his car, wondering what shit Dean got himself into this time.

And if he's gonna get out of it this time.


	2. Chapter 2

"Ben."

Sheriff Crane looks up. "Starkey." He looks at the boy standing next to him. "And you must be Sam Winchester."

"Yes, sir. Where's my brother?"

The kid is watching him anxiously, and Crane is a little taken aback at how old his eyes seem, despite the boyish expression on his face. They seem oddly out of place against his border-line puppy dog look.

"I just talked to his doctor. He's not ready for visitors yet. But he said he'd find us as soon as Dean's ready for visitors," Crane explains, trying to sound gentle, though he just comes off as a little gruff.

Sam nods, jaw clenched. Obviously, his emotions are whirling, but he hardly shows it. This kid has obviously seen a lot.

"Can you tell me what happened?" Sam asked, his voice tight.

"Not exactly. It looks as though he got attached by a wild animal of some sort. It clawed his chest up pretty good and practically mauled his arm. He lost a whole lotta blood, and the bite on his arm is infected. I don't know exactly what's going on. You'll have to ask the doctor that…Kid? You okay?"

Sam has grown incredibly pale, as though he's seen a ghost. "I think I need to sit down," he murmurs, and Crane grabs his arm just as Sam's knees give out.

"Alright, son, let's get you set down. Come on. There you go. I know this must be difficult for you, but I have some questions to ask. Do you think you'll be okay? You need a glass of water or something?" Crane says.

Sam puts his elbows on his knees and puts his head in his hands. "No, I'm fine. I'll be okay." He says the words with a firmness that's somewhat undermined by his slightly trembling hands.

Crane hesitates. The boy is clearly shaken up, and he doesn't want to push him too far. "Do you know where your brother was going Thursday night?"

Sam shrugs miserably. "We got in a fight. I was being a jerk, and he got fed up and told me he was going out. He didn't tell me where. I wouldn't be surprised if he wasn't going _anywhere_. He does that sometimes when he gets upset-just gets in his car and drives.

Crane nods. He has a feeling that Sam knows more than he's letting on, but doesn't dig any further. "Can you tell me why he had a gun in the glove compartment?"

Sam looks at him like he's an idiot. "Self defense. If I recall correctly, that's a constitutional right. He's got a license for it and everything, if you're wondering."

Again, Crane gets the impression that Sam is holding out on him. He's going to have to check the registration on the gun later.

"Sam Winchester?" a nurse asks.

Sam sits up. "Yeah?"

"You can see your brother now. He isn't awake, but-"

Sam is already on his feet. "Can you take me to him now?"

The nurse looks over at Crane, who nods. "Follow me."

XXX

Dean looks like crap. Sam's seen him in a hospital bed before-this certainly isn't the first time he's seen his brother in a bad way-but he's a bit unsettled just the same.

Dean's skin is pale, almost gray, and shiny with sweat. He's hooked up to an IV and monitors. Though his wounds are covered, Sam can see the bright red of infection peeking from the bandages on his brother's arm. He looks weak and sick and all Sam can think is that this is all his fault. If he hadn't been acting like such a bitch, then maybe Dean wouldn't've gone and nearly gotten himself killed by who-knows-what.

Sam has to fight back tears of guilt as he looks at his older brother laid up in the hospital bed.

"Hey, Dean," he says quietly. "I just wanted to say I'm-I'm sorry." His voice cracks and he pauses, wipes his eyes.

"Sam? Honey, do you have a parent you can call? We haven't been able to get a hold of anyone," a nurse says.

Sam sniffles, rising from the plastic chair. "Uh, yeah. Yeah. Is there a phone I can use?"

The nurse guides him to a phone, and he thinks a moment before dialing Bobby. The receptionist at the desk is keeping an eye on him, so he's careful what he says when he gets the answering machine.

"Hey, Uncle Bobby. This is Sam. I know Dad's latest job was in your general area, and I remember him mentioning that he might stay with you. If he's there, I need you to get a message to him. Tell him…tell him Dean's in the hospital and I need him-_we_ need him-to come back as soon as he can. Thanks, Bobby." He hangs up the phone and goes back to Dean's room.

Sam settles himself in the plastic chair once more and reaches forward to take Dean's hand in his own, careful not to jar any of the tubes residing there.

"I'm not gonna leave you, Dean," he mutters. "I'm going to stay by your side until you're awake and well. I promise."

No sooner does he say this than something starts beeping like crazy and suddenly Dean is convulsing and his IV comes out of his arm and people are rushing into the room. Sam jumps to his feet, tries to get the attention of anyone who can explain what's going on, his worried shouts added to the din of the room. A doctor points a finger at him. "He needs to leave."

Before he knows what's happening, someone has grabbed Sam by the shoulders and starts guiding him toward the door. Sam breaks from his grip.

"What's going on?" Sam cries, trying to see his brother in the swarm of people. "What's happening to my brother?"

The doctor jerks his head up and shouts, "Get him the _hell_ out of here!"

This time, a man wraps his arms around Sam and practically carries him, kicking and shouting, out of the room and into the waiting area.

"I'm sorry, kid," the man says before hurrying back to the room.

Sam stares after him before sitting heavily on the ground, running his fingers through his hair and leaving them buried there, his head between his knees. He lets out a cry of fear and frustration and collapses into tears.

His eyes are squeezed shut and he can hear footsteps running toward him and someone calls his name. He looks up and through his tears, sees his father.

"Dad," he sobs.

John looks down at him, his face a mixture of sadness and guilt and something that reminds Sam of fear, but can't possibly be because John isn't afraid of anything.

And then, John is sitting on the floor with his arms around Sam, holding him close and running his fingers through his hair and muttering assurances that Dean is going to be okay.

XXX

Starkey sees the scene that unfolds, watches as Sam and his father sit on the floor, finding what little consolation they can in each others' company. It's heartbreaking, he thinks.

Sheriff Crane is watching, too, and Starkey knows he's trying to think of some way to tactfully intrude so he can ask the father some questions.

"Ben," he says, and Crane turns.

"Yeah, James?"

Starkey puts a hand on his shoulder. "Don't. It's not really that important. The Winchesters are drifters. And heaven knows they've already been through-are going through-enough. Let it go, just this once."

He's being much more forward with the sheriff than he's ever been before, and he knows it, as does Crane, who's now staring at him in slight disbelief.

"I have questions that need to be answered," Crane insists.

"No, you don't. You want them to be answered, but you don't need them to be. The last thing this family needs is an interrogation. Look at them, Ben. They're an already broken family trying to keep the cracks from widening into chasms. Let's just leave them be. They're dealing with enough."

Crane doesn't answer for awhile. He knows full well James's story, and trusts that James can see the cracks much better than he can. He finally sighs. "Yeah, you're probably right. I'm going home, James; I'm tired."

Starkey nods, clapping him on the shoulder. "See you tomorrow then, Sheriff."

And he and the sheriff silently leave, deciding a little unsolved mystery isn't _so_ bad.

XXX

After a frightening round of d-fib, fresh stitches, and a heavy dose of stronger antibiotics, Dean's fever finally breaks. John and Sam are there when he wakes up, greeting them with a bleary smile. A week later, the doctors deem him well enough to leave as long as he takes it easy.

John takes the boys out for burgers and pie, and Dean gladly regales them with his heroic tale, exaggerating things maybe a little ("It was huge-at least seven feet long!"). They leave the small New Mexico town, kicking up dust behind them, and they don't look back.

XXX

"Sheriff Crane?"

Crane looks up. "What have you got for me?"

"The bullet that killed the thing was silver, fired from a Colt. And the blood on its claws doesn't match that of any of the family members."

Crane sighs and sits back. He'd _known_ that Dean Winchester had secrets! Now he's wondering what the hell kind of family he'd just encountered.

"Thank you, detective," Crane says, dismissing him with a wave of the hand.

He takes a long drink of coffee. This is a mystery that's much deeper than he'd originally thought-and one that he's never going to solve, he realizes.

"Damn those Winchesters," he says under his breath.


End file.
